Different People
by ncfan
Summary: As a young child, Celebrimbor wasn't told much of the Flight of the Noldor.


I own nothing.

* * *

Admittedly, Aman was all but the most distant of dreams to Celebrimbor. His first vivid memories were of the crossing to Ennor as the violent Sea buffeted the ships back and forth. He remembered clinging to Huan as Curufin and Celegorm shouted orders to the decidedly inexperienced mariners. He recalled crying for his mother, though truth be told he could barely remember her now. She was the most faded dream of all, and far more vivid in memory was the way his father's brow would furrow and his voice would grow quiet and weary when Celebrimbor spoke of his mother.

Beleriand was more Celebrimbor's home than anywhere else. It was where he had learned the lessons his father taught him, where he made friends and played with them (When there was any time for that). Beleriand was where he had learned the names of his family, outside of Fëanor's house. The songs he learned were the songs that the Mithrim taught their children to count the passing of the years and what went on in those years.

A child of Beleriand, though born in Aman was he, the Flight of the Noldor was more a matter of history to Celebrimbor than living memory. Neither his father nor the rest of his family seemed overly fond of speaking of it. When Celebrimbor learned his history from his father, Curufin only gave the barest of nods to the Flight—rather an oversight, considering how thorough Curufin was with every other period of history.

"Father?" Celebrimbor asked one day. They were seated in the library of the newly-finished fortress town in Himlad. It was an unusually warm day for that normally chilly land and even with the windows open, the library was frankly rather stuffy, making proper concentration difficult. Celebrimbor would have appreciated the opportunity to go outside and play.

Without looking up from his own texts, Curufin murmured, "Just half an hour more, Telpe. I know you do not wish to while away the day indoors." On the days when Curufin simply had his son read the texts and take down notes, he usually read something to amuse himself; he'd likely not even caught a hint of the consternation on Celebrimbor's face.

The young boy shook his head. "I wasn't asking about that."

At that, Curufin looked up, meeting the gaze of pale eyes very much like his own, though Celebrimbor thought that the light that shone out of his father's eyes was much brighter, a bit burning. It made it difficult to look him in the eyes, sometimes. "Oh? What did you want to ask, then?"

"Well, I did want to know a bit more about the Flight of the Noldor."

The request had been made innocently enough. Celebrimbor saw no reason why she should _not _learn about the Flight of the Noldor, considering how firmly Curufin was set on making sure he knew every other facet of Edhil history, even that which did not even concern the Noldor. But Curufin stiffened in his chair, the grip of his hand tight on the edge of the book he had been reading, knuckles white. Celebrimbor stared at him, shocked, wondering what about his request could possibly have provided such a starkly visible response.

When Curufin finally spoke, it was with a note of caution so palpable that even Celebrimbor, young as he was, could pick up on it. "…What do you remember of that time, Telperinquar?"

He shrugged noncommittally. "Not much. Mostly darkness, and Grandfather and Nolofinwë arguing." There was torchlight in his memory, and the way his heart had quailed; blurred memories of eight voices joined as one, Quenya words spoken, brandished like swords. Darkness pressed in, darkness with so much weight that at times Celebrimbor felt as though his bones would be crushed underneath. The nights of Ennor could be long and deep, but nights with Ithil and the stars were nothing in comparison to the terror of that darkness.

Curufin nodded stiffly. "I will tell you no more until you are older." When Celebrimbor opened his mouth to protest, he raised his hand to silence him. "It is not a tale for one of your years, my son." He looked away, his gaze distant and abstracted. "I would not…" He trailed off.

There was still half an hour more for Celebrimbor to take notes, but he could not find the will to write. He stared at his father, who was oblivious to his scrutiny. It might have been his imagination, but Curufin looked a touch paler than usual. He was staring down into his book, but his eyes weren't moving.

Even as young as he had been, Celebrimbor could remember that there had been blood.

-0-0-0-

The guards and the soldiers whispered, sometimes. Celebrimbor hung around the tavern and the garrison listening to them, until someone noticed the child in their midst and shooed him away (Usually an hour or more; Celebrimbor was good at not drawing attention to himself). He had heard the whispers the neri and nissi sometimes passed amongst themselves, when drunk or especially anxious. Their faces would twist and contort, their eyes bright with fear.

"_Do you think that we will ever be able to return, with the blood on our hands?"_

Celebrimbor's curiosity was not dead, of course, and nothing short of a comprehensive explanation could have made it abate. But there were times when his curiosity was tinged a bit by fear, and when weight was given to his nebulous memories of blood was one of these times.

There were things he noticed only when he actively looked for them. Two of the children he played with, Sindarin twins by the names of Elion and Lírhel, their parents followed after Celegorm but they often looked upon the Noldor with ambivalence. Celebrimbor had caught them staring at him once or twice, eyebrows raised and eyes appraising. Sometimes, it seemed that the Sindar as a whole, the Mithrim less so and the Edhil of the south more so, looked at all of the Noldor the way Elion and Lírhel's parents looked at him. It was there and gone in the blink of an eye, like dew on a spider web in the morning, but when it was there, it was unmistakable—it was a look of waiting.

There were things he only noticed as he grew older. Everyone participating was tense during drills and training maneuvers. Much more pronounced, however, was the tension of the whole atmosphere around the area when one Edhel was called upon to duel against another. The onlookers held their breath, their shoulders stiff, constantly shifting their weight from one leg to the other. Their eyes were over-bright, their muttering often lost to the incessant howling of the wind, but Celebrimbor was often left feeling as though something was about to explode. _What could possibly have them so out-of-sorts? Neither of the Edhil intend to kill each other, or even do serious injury to one another. There is no need for this kind of fear._

Somehow, the acrid scent of fear only whetted Celebrimbor's curiosity, even if it set the edge of fear into his own self. But he could not find the answers. What few texts from the time of the Flight there were were forbidden to him. Anyone in Himlad he could have asked seemed to have been warned off by Curufin, or maybe Celegorm.

His family was no help either. Celebrimbor could ask his uncles and his aunt all he wanted, but none of them would ever reveal more than his father had. The Ambarussa diverted him with promises to take him hunting or exploring into Ossiriand. Maglor and Ilmanis refused him gently; Caranthir, not so gently, but he would ruffle his nephew's hair and tell him the same thing that Curufin had said. Celebrimbor only asked Celegorm and Maedhros once—they both reported Celebrimbor's questions back to his father, earning Celebrimbor a scolding in his father.

There was one word, bandied about through all of this. It was a word every Edhel knew, even if they had never known the event itself. It was a word that made every smile die, made even the most relaxed of atmospheres turn sour.

-0-0-0-

"You seem distracted today."

_That you keep speaking to me doesn't help_, Celebrimbor thought, but forbore to say. It would have led only to more taunting, and he would have only grown more distracted.

At forty, Celebrimbor might have been a scant decade from his coming of age, but he was still much smaller than his father. Of course, Curufin was quite tall, even for a Noldo, but he did not think that Celebrimbor needed an adult closer to his own size to train him with the sword. After many years of teaching his son other arts, Curufin, it seemed, would not pass Celebrimbor on to other teachers in this.

Himself, Celebrimbor found that he did not enjoy learning the ways of war as he had other crafts. He understood the necessity of it—the Noldor were at war with the Enemy, and as a Prince of the Noldor, Celebrimbor would be called upon to make war against Angband. They could be attacked at any time, and Celebrimbor would need to defend himself, his people, his home. He understood that, and he would protect what he cared about with bloodshed, if necessary. It was not enough to make him enjoy it, but he would learn. He could do no less.

Curufin showed no sign of the same lack of love. His sword-strikes were forceful and direct; the same as any other practice session, Celebrimbor was forced on the defensive almost immediately, parrying his father's blows but never able to go in for a strike of his own. More than once, Celebrimbor had found himself grateful that the practice swords were blunted, so he was only left with bruises, and not gashes.

_I can't even land a blow on him. We've been doing this for months and I still can't even do that much. He's so far above me…_

"Oof!"

The latest blow came so hard that it knocked Celebrimbor clean off his feet. He started to clamber back to his feet, but before he even could Curufin's knee was driving into his chest and the blunted edge of his sword was at Celebrimbor's throat.

Breathless, Celebrimbor stared up at Curufin; the sunlight gleaming off the blade of his sword half-blinded him. This was the cue for the match to end, or it should have been. "Father?" There was a strange gleam in Curufin's pale eyes. There was nothing recognizable in that gaze, blank and fell as it was. Celebrimbor's blood began to pound in his ears. He dropped his sword, let it fall with a dull thump onto the grass, and curled his hand around Curufin's wrist. "Father?"

For an interminable moment, there was silence. Celebrimbor's heart was in his throat. Though it was a cool day, the heat of Anor's light seemed to press down on him like one of the furnaces in the smithy.

Then, Curufin's eyes cleared. He blinked, once, twice, three times; then, his eyes widened and he tossed his sword away and rolled off of Celebrimbor so quickly that he fell to the ground in a heap, breathing as though winded.

Celebrimbor struggled up into a sitting position, wheezing slightly, and looked in concern upon his father. Curufin sat hunched over, still breathing very hard, eyes screwed shut, mopping his brow with a shaking hand. _Shaking?_

Celebrimbor said nothing, staring wide-eyed at his father. He wasn't sure what response speaking would provoke, he wasn't sure what any of that had been.

Finally, Curufin looked up, and Celebrimbor nearly recoiled from that gaze—the emotions there were unreadable and yet so intense that they threatened to burn his skin. Curufin held his gaze, still panting, but then he seemed to remember himself, for he drew a deep breath and straightened. "I believe," he said quietly, "that once years ago you asked me to tell you of the Flight of the Noldor. I…" He looked away, and suddenly a look of intense bitterness passed over his face, settling at his mouth. "…I believe it is time you knew."

-0-0-0-

The nights in Himlad were indeed long and deep, only more so when thick cloud banks obscured Ithil and the stars as they so often did. On nights like this, Celebrimbor made sure the flame in his lamp kept burning, even until late when nearly all the lamps in the garrison town had been extinguished. Though, tonight, he might not have been doing it just to keep the shadows at bay.

"_Evil we might have done in Alqualondë. No, I will not dispute that. Would that I could. Would that you did not have to… When we reclaim the Silmarils, we will return to Aman, and redress the wrongs we committed there."_

"_But the Doom of the Noldor is that we are _never _to return."_

_Curufin smiled then, unaccustomedly gently. "The Valar want the Silmarils as much as we do. With them, we can set terms that they would be unwilling to refuse." His eyes clouded over. "Whatever evil we do in the reclaiming of the Silmarils, it is a small price to pay. Nothing is more important than recovering them. Do you understand me, Telperinquar?"_

"_Yes, Father_," he had said obediently, and for all the years he had entertained curiosity, Celebrimbor was relieved to have his father let the subject drop.

What was the price of a life? Of dozens? What was the price when they had been slain for their ships?

What was the price of the lives that had been lost defending Beleriand? The lives that would inevitably be lost in the future?

What was the price of the Doom? What price must be paid for the Valar to relent and allow the Exiles to return to the homeland they had forsaken? What was the price when the way had been sealed behind them, and the Doomsman proclaimed that the Valar would be forever numb to the Noldor's lamentations?

Celebrimbor drew closer to the light cast by the flame. The quavering shadows danced on the walls, forming ghastly shapes, and the boy had to avert his gaze from them. He tried to remember, tried to conjure an image of what his father must have looked like in the unending darkness, when the only light was that of fire and he was splattered with the blood of the Telerin mariners. What must his uncles have looked like? His grandfather?

He couldn't imagine it. He was a child of Aman, but he could no more remember the Kinslaying than he could remember the singing of the Ainulindalë, eons before his own birth. Though he had the story from his father's mouth, Celebrimbor could not begin to imagine the scene.

It seemed like something from a nightmare, the idea that his family had killed the distant kin of his childhood friends, of the Laegrim living in Ossiriand, but there it was. In hindsight, Celebrimbor could catch the truth in the fearful eyes of the Noldorin soldiers, in the watchful ones of the Sindar of Himlad. Curufin himself said that it was true. The same person who had given Celebrimbor comfort as a small child, the same person who had always protected him and cared for him, had done _that_.

Celebrimbor would ask himself the questions many times as the years went down (_What price? What price_?), and for years, decades, centuries, he floundered at the point where the questions must be answered.

Eventually, he did come to one conclusion, an answer that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

_It is too great a price for any one person to pay_.

He blew out the candle, and was left to the dark. The story made no sense to him then than it had in daylight.

* * *

Telperinquar, Telpe—Celebrimbor  
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin  
Ambarussa—Amrod and Amras

Ennor—Middle-Earth (Sindarin)  
Edhil—Elves (singular: Edhel) (Sindarin)  
Ithil—the Sindarin name for the Moon  
Neri—men (singular: nér)  
Nissi—women (singular: nís)  
Anor—the Sindarin name for the Sun  
Ainulindalë—'The Music of the Ainur' (Quenya); the name given to the account of Creation by Ilúvatar and the Ainur  
Laegrim—the Green-Elves of Ossiriand (singular: Laegel) (plural: Laegil; Laegrim is class-plural term); the division of the Nandor who followed Denethor, son of Lenwë; the name was imposed upon them by the Sindar, both because of the lush forests of their land and because the Laegrim often dressed in green as camouflage


End file.
